The Tunnel of Hugsy Goode by Eleanor Estes Page B

Tornid's left and beside his mother, at the end of the table where she can get to the kitchen if necessary; Danny on her left, opposite LLIB; then the two C. girls—Beatrice, the black-eyed C. girl (too bad she is opposite me because I don't know where to look ... you can't see into those great black eyes); and next to her, Isabel, the blue-eyed C. girl; and last, at the other end of the table is Tornid's kind dad, about to carve a little roast chicken.
    Tornid and me have made our secret sign that temporarily makes us free from the Contamination, and we could even look into Black-Eyes' eyes without fear. I wish I could dig what goes on behind them. But I can't. I fare better with Blue-Eyes who may abide me better ... I don't know.
    Well, that makes eight of us at the dinner table, and the dinner was great. That's one good thing you can say about both the moms, they are wonderful cooks. Sasha, the golden afghan with a pedigree that goes back to Afghan the First, is nosing around under the table. There's a ledge that goes around under the top of the table. People sometimes stick their gum there, to save it ... sometimes they forget it and it hardens and becomes part of the table, or Sasha gets it and chews it intelligently; or they put a piece of food on the ledge they don't like and don't want to tell their mom they didn't like it. Nobody wants to hurt Bayberry's feelings, and all kiss her when dinner is over and say thank you and it was good. So, Sasha gets a windfall now and then. But not from this dinner, as good as a Thanksgiving dinner and it's only May.
    We were eating the dessert, which was apple pie. I had just a few more bites to go when ... I don't know what made me—I
must,
like Jane Ives and Tornid, have ESP
...
I
felt
eyes on me from behind. I turned around. I saw a little animal looking in the window at us. "Raccoon" at first did not enter my mind, it was so unlikely. "Look at that cat!" I said. But the minute I said "cat" I knew it was a raccoon, though that's a hard thing to prove to some people, yechh.
    C. girl Beatrice said, "It's not a cat. It's a raccoon."
    "Raccoon!" we all said together.
    The C. girls made a low-voiced comment. Since they are polite, they refrained from making a criticism of a visitor in their home, even though the visitor was me. But I could tell what the comment was..."Can't tell a raccoon from a cat..."
    I do things faster than most people. I was the only one able to scoop up the last of my pie and, even so, be the first out the back door. But the raccoon had vanished in the misty May air. We searched for a while, though it was getting dark. Me and Tornid jumped in the hidey hole to keep the others from doing the same and came out saying loudly, "Nope, not down here." We didn't see him anywhere.
    People who live in the country would not be astonished to see a raccoon looking in at them through a dining-room window. But it is an unusual thing to have happen in Brooklyn, especially the part I live in—the Alley on the campus of Grandby Institute, not near the zoo or anything.
    My C. sister, Star, came out. She was jealous when she heard the news because she hadn't seen the raccoon. At first she said, "Aw, yeah..." to me, not believing. But the honest Fabian girls said, "Yes, Star. He really was here, looking at us through the window. Maybe he would have come in if we hadn't moved and if Sasha hadn't been there. He was bee-utiful!" Then Star believed. That is one advantage to being truth-telling like the Fabians. People get to believe you. They'll
never
believe that I meant "raccoon" once I'd said "cat."
    LLIB said, "It's lucky it wasn't a skunk." Then he went into a long story which nobody listened to about how, once in Maine, Sasha chased a skunk and well, as I say, phewy! I tried to listen, though, being a visitor in their house.
    We all went back in then, including Star, and we all had another piece of pie. They make about five pies at a time there in that house ... they